


This is Your Sport, But She's Not Playing a Game

by Darker_Side



Series: My Dear, We are Slow Dancing in a Burning Room [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: A little sadistic, Chloe's POV, Cumming Together, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat (ish), Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Knife Play, Lucifer may be a bit of a masochist, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Red Devil Eyes, Unhappy Ending, Vindication porn, abuse of very expensive wine, but she's not getting off on it, but that might be the drugs, emotional sex but not the sweet kind, non-con elements, post 04x08 canon-divergence, power-dynamic switch, power-play, psychological abuse, wound fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darker_Side/pseuds/Darker_Side
Summary: “Good thing you’re not calling the shots this time.” She raised her eyebrows at his blank expression, deciding to step closer, realizing that soon enough, he really would be at her mercy.“Detective,” he sighed, tone full of pity and condescension. “I will never not call the shots up here,” he added, sighing again, leaning back fully into his seat on the couch, head tilting back on the edge, making him look lazy, sluggish, even. It was starting to take effect.“If anyone else were here but me, that would be true,” Chloe said, leaving the statement open, ominous. A vague sentence that sounded threatening to the right ears. His ears.She watched as he slanted his eyes, thinking hard for a second as he struggled to swallow. He licked his dry lips, taking a deep breath that appeared to come harder than it should. He shook his head lightly, either out of disbelief or a test of his senses. He didn’t like the feedback he received. “What did you do?”--Lucifer's vulnerability around Chloe works in her favor. A lot more is said, a lot more is done, and it hurts just as deliciously as it did the last time.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: My Dear, We are Slow Dancing in a Burning Room [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756186
Comments: 48
Kudos: 70





	This is Your Sport, But She's Not Playing a Game

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I won’t sugar-coat it. This one gets really fucking mean. More specifically, Chloe gets really fucking mean. Please, PLEASE, heed the tags. I had so many ways that I was thinking on letting this go, and then this story up and grew legs, running off on its own and went down a path I just had to follow. In the end-notes I’ll explain a few of the more concerning tags, just like last time, for those that want a bit more detail before they dive into this pain-pool. 
> 
> Title from a poem by Atalanta (I think, that’s all I could find on the creator) I found on [Pinterest](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/11/da/5b/11da5bd96a2775fb322bc30ea3f32ad4.jpg)
> 
> Un-beta'd, as always. So... sorry in advance!
> 
> Here are some songs to get you in the make-it-hurt mood:
> 
> [In This Moment: The In-Between](https://youtu.be/pjOtKC_GZ9o)  
> [UNSECRET: Vendetta (Feat. Krigarè)](https://youtu.be/7DMJZSTGPXg)  
> [UNSECRET: No Mercy (Feat. Icetope)](https://youtu.be/mrXzf3glemc)  
> [Tommee Profitt: Pull That Trigger (Feat. Fleurie)](https://youtu.be/cqMQK6b4zNI)  
> [Tommee Profitt: In The End, Linkin Park Cover (Feat. Fleurie & Jung Youth)](https://youtu.be/8qLL2Gx3I_k)

_“Why do you think you’ve been lying to yourself all this time?”_

_“Because the truth is so much harder to face.”_

_“What is the truth?”_

_“…I’ve brought this upon myself…”_

_-0-0-0-0-0-_

_“The real truth is what?”_

_“There is something rotten inside of me. I find it near impossible to drown out the constant cacophony of voices whispering in my ear, telling me I AM EVIL. I’m drowning, Doctor! And I can’t stop asking myself…Why do I hate myself so much!?”_

* * *

It was dark in the penthouse. Evidence of anyone being there nonexistent. It was calming, actually. A place filled with so much history and wealth, of culture and wisdom. Without him there, she was able to focus on the truly beautiful nature of the space he surrounded himself in. The comfort, prestige, and elegance _almost_ made her forget that it housed something complicated, something wicked and foul, hiding behind a mask of beauty and grace. Almost. Whenever she had those moments of doubt, when she just couldn’t fathom the creature Father Kinnley made him out to be was the truth, her memory flashed phantasmagoric murals of his other face, of the eyes that broke through that façade of handsome. It frightened her, _he_ frightened her, knowing that _that_ lay beneath the surface of him, that all she had known was a superficial costume of human flesh.

She had felt guilty, initially. Especially after that night at her house, the night that left her cleaning up well into the sunrise, that left her feeling open and bruised in more ways than physical. What had transpired was unavoidable. The feelings that she had after were unexpected. She hadn’t expected to see that level of hurt, pain, utter betrayal in his eyes as they returned to their warm brown. Hadn’t expected to feel his disappointment manifest into the softening of his cock inside of her. The tears he had shed at the end unnerved her. They were hot and salty, just like any humans’; he had shown every part of how he wasn’t human, but a single tear tried to contradict that fact.

His touch had grown cold, and so had her heart, as she watched him walk away. She knew it wouldn’t be the last time she’d see him, even if his words said the opposite. Lucifer had never been reliable in that regard, and for the first time, she was grateful of that. He was around, Eve was around, but they had little to do with each other, only the occasional glance when her work and his _work_ seemed to overlap. She would watch Eve cling to him like he was a lifeline, a god to worship, and part of her was jealous of that feeling. She wished, fucking _prayed_ , she could see Lucifer as some glorious being, but she saw the side of him that made him no angel. She read the things Father Kinnley had gathered, and if they were true, he was a monster. She was a pragmatic woman, and she wouldn’t dare come to his place, wait for him in the darkness, without something in her corner. Something to even the playing field. Hell, something to give her an advantage over him. Since he told her, _showed_ her, his vulnerability around her and only her, she knew she had leverage. That leverage would come to her aid that night.

Under the cover of darkness, through the stillness of an empty space, Chloe poured the clear, medical-grade liquid Ketamine into the nearest decanter of Scotch, the one with a tumbler right next to it. For convenience. Lucifer never worried about conspicuously placed drinks. Why would he? The only person who could hurt him was Chloe, and for all he would know, she would be at home, safely away from him. She poured the lethal dose of it, accounting for the dilution into the half-full decanter. She wasn’t trying to kill him, just incapacitate him. Father Kinnley had given her the drug, obtained illegally, for sure, and said it would work. Being a homicide detective, Chloe knew all about Ketamine: its effects, its uses, the hallucinogenic properties, the dissociative sedative used in medicine. The bitter taste wouldn’t be a problem. Lucifer hardly sipped his liquor; he’d rather down it glass by glass just to get a taste of the buzz.

Once the liquid had swirled and mixed with the alcohol, Chloe retreated back into the darkness, back to the area near his bookcase where she could stand in the shadows, away from his immediate site, ready to strike when she was ready. It wasn’t too late into the evening, but she had no idea where he was or when he would get back. All she could do was wait. She had arranged for Dan to take Trixie for the night, so she didn’t have anywhere else to be. She could wait; wait for him to take his inevitable four-finger drink of Scotch, and then let the magic of Ketamine do its work.

*-*-*-*

About an hour later, she heard the elevator whir as it was called down to the bottom floor. Her heart started beating faster, knowing he was on the way, knowing her window for leaving was gone. She had contemplated many times in the expanse of that hour, but the anger she felt about how he left things was too strong. By no means was she a saint, but the fact he had the audacity to play victim in any of it outraged her. She was the one whose life became unraveled, who now knew that Heaven and Hell were a thing. That God and the Devil were real, the latter living and breathing right under her nose. Pressed to her lips and inside of her. She felt soiled, but the problem she had the most was that she didn’t feel bad about it. The tainting of her soul felt natural, like he had always been destined to have that part of her.

The soft ding put an abrupt stop to her thoughts as she cowered farther into the shadows, watching the elevator doors open, revealing a tired-looking Lucifer, strung-out and distraught. She could see his anger in the thin line of his lips, the way the skin around his eyes was tight, the way his shoulders were held back with tension. He hadn’t noticed her at all. He had walked right out of the elevator, turning left straight towards the bar. She inhaled quietly, watching him pour an almost full tumbler of the dosed Scotch before knocking it back in two gulps. He poured himself another of the same quantity, and a small part of her wanted to yell out, to stop him, but she didn’t. Instead, she watched as he downed another glass, and then another, until he was satisfied with the burn. He sighed, sliding his tailored suit-jacket off and draping it over the bar. Her mouth went dry as she watched him unbutton the top two buttons of his white shirt, exposing the tanned skin of his neck, a divine pulse thrumming away, unknowingly drugging the now vulnerable host.

She had twenty minutes before the Ketamine would kick in, would start making his speech difficult, his body grow numb, his mind wander into the depths of all his depravity in her presence. It was when he went to pour a fourth drink that she stepped out of the darkness, into the dim light he surrounded himself in, successful in stopping him mid-pour. She wasn’t sure if a fourth drink would kill him, but that’s not what she wanted. She wanted him conscious and alert for what she had planned. A wicked part of her said _so what_ at the thought of an overdose, but that part was small and easy to ignore, push aside for another day. She could convince herself that it was her desire for retaliation, not wanting him to die, but that would be a lie. Even after everything; after the reveal and the night at her house, she didn’t want him dead. Sickeningly, couldn’t imagine it.

He stared at her, not even flinching at her sudden appearance, not even the most minute of movements to signal she had taken him by surprise. It either meant she hadn’t, or it was his infinite years of experience in hiding his reactions. He stood still as a statue for a few seconds before finishing his pour, three-fingers that time, and knocking that back. He cleared his throat as he set the glass down, leaning against the bar on his left forearm, turning his attention to her.

“To what do I owe _this_ unexpected pleasure?” he asked, voice laced with sarcasm and disdain. He tilted his chin up, swallowing, ignorant to the drug coursing through his veins, beginning to attack his system.

Chloe opened her mouth, only to close it when she struggled to find the words to say. She had her service weapon on her hip, knife in her boot, and soon, she would have the upper hand between them. None of it prepared for her talking to him, for answering questions, for asking them herself. In the end, she decided on asking her own question. “You look like shit. Rough night?”

He looked taken aback by her response, and he huffed out a laugh, crossing his legs at the ankle from where stood, giving off a casual air, like the two of them in a room alone was nothing. “I’ve just come from a rather enlightening session with the Good Doctor,” Lucifer grumbled bitterly, eyeing his empty glass and the nearly empty decanter. She held her breath as he contemplated another drink, sure that it would kill him, and sighed in relief when he decided against it. He looked worn, tired, a little bit of resentment thinning his lips.

“Oh yeah?” she asked, indifferent, unconcerned. She didn’t try to hide it, and he didn’t try to hide the scoff as he walked carelessly over to the couch, sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. It was oddly civil, and Chloe would have been lying to herself if she didn’t admit to feeling a little bit nostalgic to their good ol’ days. When it was simple and exasperating. When he was just an enigmatic man with an unhealthy obsession of using religious symbols as an analogy for his family. When he was just another rich playboy who used sex and drugs as coping mechanisms. Back when she didn’t know he really was the Devil, that he really was the Father of Sin; that the Devil could cry salty tears. 

“Why are you here, Detective?” came his quiet question. His fingers clenched together, turning white at the knuckles, and he rubbed his hands together like someone trying to find something to do other than use their fists. She wondered if the appeal to touch him was her fault, or because he could control desire. Nothing made sense anymore, and she found it hard not to question her feelings, her physical reactions, after knowing what he really was. When he was just a man to her, she could argue it was because he was beautiful, masculine in all the right ways, dominating and intimidating to those that needed it. He wasn’t a man, though, and all that intimidation seemed wrong, seemed like an abuse of power. Her attraction to him seemed like an abuse of power; hiding behind that pretty face to fake commonality.

“Guess it was a rough night,” she said, bypassing his question again. She could see it frustrated him, the way his jaw clenched, teeth gritting, but he neither did nor said anything. “Especially since you didn’t have anyone to fuck when you got home.”

A flash of amusement glittered in his dark eyes, brightening his features, the barest hint of a smirk on lips surrounded by a neatly groomed dusting of black stubble. “That’s just not true, Detective. From where I’m sitting, looks like I _do_ have someone to fuck.” He said it so confidently, so full of promise and warning. That was what it was, after all: a dangerous game of give and take between them. The scary part was that she wanted it. Why else would she be there?

“Good thing you’re not calling the shots this time.” She raised her eyebrows at his blank expression, deciding to step closer, realizing that soon enough, he really would be at her mercy.

“Detective,” he sighed, tone full of pity and condescension. “I will never _not_ call the shots up here,” he added, sighing again, leaning back fully into his seat on the couch, head tilting back on the edge, making him look lazy, sluggish, even. It was starting to take effect.

“If anyone else were here but me, that would be true,” Chloe said, leaving the statement open, ominous. A vague sentence that sounded threatening to the right ears. His ears.

She watched as he slanted his eyes, thinking hard for a second as he struggled to swallow. He licked his dry lips, taking a deep breath that appeared to come harder than it should. He shook his head lightly, either out of disbelief or a test of his senses. He didn’t like the feedback he received. “What did you do?”

Chloe cleared her throat, heart racing in her chest the sooner it came to her time to take control. She shrugged, taking a few steps towards him, closing the distance now that she could see the effects of the Ketamine cocktail manifest before her eyes. “Hmm,” she hummed, knitting her brows together for effect. She stepped even closer, hands crossing behind her back, showing just how unthreatened she felt. “I would have thought you would be able to tell me, I mean, you have an eternity of drug use without consequence under your designer belt.”

“You bitch,” he bit out, a huff of amusement, voice thick from heavy lips, hard-moving. His body seemed to sag further down into the couch, leg spreading to help balance his weakening frame. His arms fell heavily at his sides, hands spread out, fingers lightly digging into the leather. He grunted, head leaning back, throat exposed, and watched, only his eyes moving, as Chloe slowly approached him. She watched him inhale sharply, coughing, as she moved to stand between his spread legs, looking down at him with a mixture of fear and retribution. She slung one thigh over his knee, situating herself to straddle his lap, feeling the angry growl from deep within his chest as she used his shoulders to adjust her seat. He wasn’t completely hard beneath her, but she could feel his cock throb as blood began to fill the chambers, soft skin growing rigid.

“Already resorting to name-calling?” she questioned, clicking her tongue in disproval, being the one to smirk down at him. _Finally._ His head was still angled back, his neck and upper chest were exposed from him relaxing the buttons of his shirt. Thick and muscled, tendons twitching with every minor movement, the barely detectable beat of his pulse on the side called out to her, asked to have her teeth sunk in. She couldn’t ignore it; he was gorgeous, in that villainous sort of way. In the way that was intended to lure in his prey, charm them with sweet seduction, suck the very life from them as they thanked him for the pleasure of damnation. She knew it well. Knew the pull.

He noticed her lingering stare at his collar, one side of his mouth turning up in a lazy grin, eyes blinking slowly, heavily, but he was there. There was still fire behind those eyes.

“Like what you see?” he asked, voice deep and dripping with intent. “All you had to do was ask, Darling, I’m very generous. No need to drug a poor Devil.” He laughed at his own joke, the typical sarcastic, smug response, realizing he wouldn’t get so much as a smile from her.

“Not much of a surprise, is it?” she asked, agitated at his callous regard for the situation. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she hadn’t expected him to be taking the role-reversal so well. She didn’t necessarily underestimate his ability to adapt to vulnerability, she just knew he had to feel some version of fear somewhere. That animal part of him that screamed danger in his ear. “You walk around looking like _this_ instead of what you really look like.”

He blinked sluggishly, and when he opened his eyes, brown peaked through a forest of black lashes and she had to physically hold back a gasp. “This _is_ the real me,” he protested, a smirk on his lips, like he knew what he was doing, what he could do with his body to sway her. “The other face is just another part of myself.” Without taking his eyes away from hers, she felt huge, warm hands land lightly along her hips, where they creased to meet her thighs. He didn’t grasp, he didn’t hold, he simply rested his hands there; perhaps it was a challenge, but it felt like more of a warning, a reminder. She allowed it, only because in the process she felt his hand brush against her hip holster. Her own reminder; a metal and plastic warning.

“Why don’t you show your other face?” she asked, sitting down firmly in his lap. He sighed at the pressure, but that was all the reaction she was going to get. She’d get more later. “I’ve seen it, so why keep this façade up? Be what you really are.”

Something akin to irritation and resentment crossed his features, branding his eyes with a sort of primal energy stoked by instinct. “I’m not your dancing monkey,” he responded darkly, eyes boring into her soul, twisting her insides into a sick knot of trepidation and want.

“Maybe not intentionally,” Chloe hinted, rolling her neck, stretching kinks that weren’t there. His eyes narrowed at that, but before he could argue, she reached down between them, firmly grasping the half-hard cock close to her own crotch. He grunted, nostrils flaring at the contact, before a grimace took over, a low growl in his chest. “But this monkey seems about ready to dance.” She arched an eyebrow, daring him to disagree, and she was more than pleased when he closed his eyes, taking a hard-earned breath, letting his head fall further onto the back of the couch.

“Dangle fruit in front of it, any monkey will play along,” Lucifer added, swallowing hard, shifting his hips beneath her, whether to seek friction or get comfortable was up for debate. “Even if that fruit is rotten.” He leaned up at that, glaring at her, the same disappointment one would have to an overly ripe, bruised banana. Damaged, soft, but edible.

Chloe hummed in acknowledgement, showing her dissatisfaction with his addition to the metaphor. Nodding her head and turning to face to the side, she squeezed his semi-hard, cloth-encased cock. Squeezed until she heard his breath hitch, knowing he would never give her the satisfaction of sounding pained. Not that easily. “I hope you can still get it up, even with a lethal dose of ketamine running through your system.”

His eyebrows rose towards his hairline, as far as he seemed capable of getting them, perhaps a little surprised by the drug choice, hopefully a little concerned by the dose. “Lethal for whom, exactly?” he asked breathlessly, sounding indifferent, but the way his eyes widened ever so slightly hinted otherwise.

“A person,” Chloe responded, a wicked grin turning one corner of her mouth up. “So you have nothing to worry about.” She saw the flash of hurt in his eyes, but his lips curled in a weak snarl, chest heaving when his breath became a little harder to take. “Once I’m done and gone, I’m sure you’ll make a full recovery.” She patted his chest, like one would an obedient dog, before pushing herself off of his lap, lazily walking towards the bar, hand casually resting on the gun at her hip. “Drink?” she asked over her shoulder, smiling at him before sliding behind the bar, tinkering with glasses and mixology tools.

She heard him curse under his breath, registering he had unknowingly drugged himself. Heavily, too, drinking heavy-handed pours of straight Scotch laced with anesthetic. “I believe I’ve had enough,” he said, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she agreed, not looking over at him while she perused his shelves and found the most expensive looking bottle of wine she could find. “I almost stopped you on that last one,” she admitted, picking out a delicate, large wine glass; a thin stem on a wide base and huge, bulbous bowl, tapered at the rim. “Almost, but I decided, why the hell not? Let’s see what happens,” she finished, knowing the implication of those words wouldn’t go over his head. He was smart, and she could appreciate his ability to read between the lines, even if he was illiterate when it came to them and what they used to be.

She left them in silence as she opened the bottle, the bold, bouquet immediately reaching her nose as soon as the cork was released. It was deep, rich, even smelled velvety, and she knew it would be the right kind of dry, the right level of depth and complexity. The kind that sat heavy on the tongue, like blood, coating her mouth and sliding down easily. She poured her glass, the glugging of the dark purple liquid nearly echoing in the quiet room. Once her glass was full, she carefully walked back around the bar towards the couch. Lucifer’s head turned so he could follow her movements, and she could have sworn there was reverence peeking out behind a translucent veil of antipathy.

“You don’t mean that,” he stated, a near prayer for the truth, eyes growing wet. He was waiting for her response, desperately hoping for the one that meant _no_. Instead of answering, she took a long sip from her glass, letting the wine sit and coat the inside of her mouth in warmth and smoky, fruity flavors. He swallowed in relief, taking her lack of response as admission; an answer to his prayer. She’s let him have that small victory, only because it was true, and verbally admitting that would change the entire mood of the evening, would be the first step in losing her footing.

She took a seat on the coffee table in front of the couch, sitting directly in front of him, far enough away to be able to look at every part of him, so he could look at her if he had the energy to lift his head. She opened her mouth to say something, but his sudden jolt, the turn of his head to the side, stopped her. He rolled his eyes with a long, drawn-out sigh, like he _knew_ whatever it was that startled him was just a hallucination brought on by the drug, annoying him nonetheless. Her lips quirked up in a small smirk, even though she wondered what it was the Devil would hallucinate about. She wondered if he would even tell her. Wondered if she wanted to know those horrors.

“What’s wrong, see something?” she asked, feigning worry and curiosity as she tilted her body to the side, pretending to look for something that might have dashed behind Lucifer somewhere.

“Fuck you,” he spat, but then he started to laugh, a bubbling chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all. She could see it, how the fabric of what sanity he had was started to pull and unravel. “I appreciate your commitment to it, knowing _damn well_ nothing is there.” Something endearing welled in her chest at his jesting; the fact he still could, even in this state, even in the situation they had put themselves in. Everything wrong and fucked-up between them. He was still _Lucifer_. It ached and bled, the muscle in her heart that clenched for him, but all the pain did was stoke the fire of resentment for him and what he had never felt he could _actually_ show her. It was too late for that now.

The angry, indifferent edge to his eyes was gone, replaced with crippling panic as the Ketamine coursed through his system, fully set in by that point. Her time to strike. He’d quickly start metabolizing the drug, and then he would no longer be numbed or broken-minded. His labored breaths quickened, his hands weakly ran up and down his thighs, his body trying to crawl out of itself. It was now or never, and she ignored the small part of her brain that screamed for her to wait, to place her hand on his, to let the drug run its course so it could be real. But she remembered that nothing could be real with him. She could never believe anything to be real, not with the original tempter was before her, looking like the best sin she could ever commit.

Chloe took an encouraging chug from her wine, regretting not bringing the bottle over, before she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, thighs spread in a clearly authoritative position. He peered at her through his lashes; a caged animal waiting to either defend itself or cower away from the impending threat. She wondered if Lucifer had been this conflicted, this torn, about doing what she was about to do. “How are you feeling?” she asked, doing her best to make it sound like it wasn’t his health she was after. Doing her best to make it sound like she wanted to know how fucked-up he felt.

“Oh, you know, nothing like a bit of drug-induced paranoia combined with _just enough_ anesthetized weakness to keep your evening stimulating,” he breathed, hands still running along his thighs, not squeezing, just a disturbing look of loose fingers against fabric.

“Frightening, isn’t it?” she asked, standing up, stepping forward a half-step to stand between his legs, wine in hand. “Feeling so scared, so weak, so _vulnerable_.”

“I think it’s fair to say this is a little different from the ordinary plight of mortality,” he argued, jaw clenching in agitation. She shrugged, bringing the glass up to her lips, gracefully sipping as she slid back on top of his lap, legs squeezing against the outside of his thighs, ass near the tops of his knees. He grunted under the pressure, pulling his hands free from under her legs, boldly placing them at the crease of her hip, thumbs pressing into the soft spot below her hip bones. He unconsciously licked his bottom lip, teeth lightly biting into the plump flesh, and it took every ounce of her strength to not grind down, to not just take. She had a plan.

“I’m sure we could spend all night arguing the differences between immortality and being at the Devil’s mercy, but I’m not here for philosophy,” she said, scooting closer on her knees, bringing her core closer to where she wanted to be. A few drops of wine sloshed out and dripped onto his couch, his eyes followed the liquid beading on the leather and she let out a quiet _oops_ as she smiled. Once she was settled more firmly in his lap, their torsos closer, their complimentary sexes so close but concealed, she licked a stray drop from the base of the glass. She watched as his eyes followed her lips, the curve of her tongue as she brought the drop into her mouth. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, like it was suddenly dry, and the very least she could do was wet his tongue.

“Instead,” she started, drawing his thin attention away from her mouth and back to her eyes. He looked desperate, waiting on her every word, and part of her felt victorious at that. Another part of her felt ashamed for bringing such a mighty creature down so low. “Let’s take a page from your book, make a little deal.”

“Well, you know how much I like to play, Detective,” he responded hoarsely, voice raspy in a way that signified his state; riding the line between intoxication and arousal. For some reason, his words angered her. Made everything that had happened between them feel insignificant. Like another notch in his eternal bedpost. Like what they had, what they were, was something fleeting and futile in his infinite existence. It hurt, more than anything, and she wasn’t the one who was supposed to be hurting.

She reached out, grabbing a handful of the front of his shirt, the material stretching across his chest in the process. “But this isn’t a _fucking_ game, Lucifer,” she ground out through clenched teeth, leaning forward so they were nose to nose. “Here’s how it’s gonna go: if you’re hard, and I mean _really_ hard, like fucking granite, not the sad excuse for a hard-on you had earlier, I’ll take my pound of flesh.” She let her words sink it, watching as his features softened into something close to amused, but his eyes remained guarded and alert. “If you’re not - which, really, do you even want to consider not being able to get it up? - If you’re not, I’ll leave you to your waking nightmares, in the dark, all alone.”

Anger flashed in his eyes, that barely visible flicker of red that let her know she wasn’t talking to just another man, and she would refuse to acknowledge the disappointment in that ember-glow not staying. She could feel his chest rumbling beneath her balled fist, so she tightened her grip, pulling her fist towards herself, making his chest heave up, his grip on her hips tightening. Her eyes darted between his, a back-and-forth nystagmus brought on by the desire to see everything she could in pools of brown that didn’t belong on Earth.

“Maybe you’ll see the light, or some shit. Maybe you’ll have a little home-away-from-home moment, suffer endless tortures like all the people you have down there. Either way, won’t be my problem.”

“Actually,” he added, swallowing down some rage, she was sure. “Just one torture… usually,” he finished, nearly a whisper, a barely-there breath of a statement. His brows knitted together like he wasn’t entirely sure, like he was confused about something he shouldn’t be. That wasn’t the important detail in his little inclusion.

“What?” she barked, half because of what he implied, the other half because she couldn’t believe that was the response he had for every cruel thing she had said.

He sighed, rolling his eyes because he was about to explain something he had done _n_ number of times. “One torture,” he said, holding her stare, making sure she was focusing on him; absorbing the information. “It’s a loop. Every poor, damned soul experiences their worst moment again and again for all of eternity, until I give the order to change it.” He looked pleased by her expression, which she knew was a combination of horrified realization and aggressive disbelief. She didn’t even try to hide it; anyone would feel mortified by that information. “I’d say you should start to worry, but I’m not sure that sins against the Devil are considered damnable or righteous,” he continued, casual and collected, because what he was saying didn’t surprise him. It had been his reality for eons of time. “Knowing my father, it’s probably a freebee, so, enjoy,” he finished, a weak gesture of a flourish from both of his hands could be seen out of her peripheral by her hips.

She was still facing him, but she was looking over him, past him; her mind somewhere far and away from her goal from the evening. She hadn’t even considered it, and wasn’t that some ironic bullshit. She hadn’t considered that she was living to either go to Heaven or Hell, wasn’t sure which she wanted by that point, but now she knew things no human was meant to. She was no longer blissfully ignorant to the afterlife, and she could blame Lucifer for that wrong, if nothing else, he robbed her of that. He shifted beneath her, and she fought the urge to lash out, to hit, to slap him so hard it stung her hand, but that would be juvenile and such a _human_ thing to do. She had to be better than him.

“Who knew you had this level of depravity in you, Detective?” his voice came, almost through the void, and her mind returned to the moment, like through a worm hole, and she was met with his biting words and dark eyes. “I mean, we all knew I did, but you? Mom of the year? Homicide detective with the highest success rate in the greater Los Angeles area – you’re welcome, by the way –“

“Fuck you, Lucifer,” she interrupted lowly, voice simmering behind bubbling rage, a volcano close to eruption. “You did this.”

She was surprised by his sudden outburst of hysterical laughter, an incessant chuckle that sounded both incredulous and exhausted. “I don’t make you, or anyone, do anything!” he shouted, once he had managed to calm himself down. An unsettling smirk formed on his lips and he looked all the man, possessed creature she expected him to look. “You’re more delusional than I thought. I know of a good therapist,” he added, laughter boiling over once again. The giggles turned to wheezes, and it took a deep breath, her body moving in his lap as his chest expanded, to catch his breath again. “But, I digress,” leaning his head back against the couch, sagging into it further, hips rolling up into her as he stretched his back. “You were saying something about a deal?” 

Chloe shifted her glass from her right hand to her left, dragging the pointer finger of her right hand down his chest, over his abdomen, and stopping when the digit caught on his belt. “Oh yes, how could I forget? Something about a _really_ hard cock and…” He cut himself off, watching as she brought the glass up to her lips, tilting it and draining the contents. She saw the want in his eyes, the thirst, and his blow-out pupils, dilated far more than they should be, gave him an ethereal look; the humanizing brown hardly present. It was captivating.

She held a swallow of wine in the well of her mouth, bending down to bring her lips to his, sucking in air through her teeth to control the flow from her mouth to his. She felt his tongue slip out, rest against her bottom lip, a sluice for the velvety alcohol to slide down. It was messy, but in that aesthetic way that only purplish-red lines dripping down tanned skin, staining white material and soaking into divine lips could be. He moaned at the taste, both wine and human, lapping it up like a vampire to a bite: desperately, thoroughly, not nearly enough.

Chloe hovered her lips over his, right hand reaching down between them, squeezing the hard length of his cock. No give, harder than ever, and she smirked against his lips, squeezing his cock even harder, earning an aborted whimper he tried to stop, but was a _just_ too late. “Dance, monkey, dance,” she celebrated, flicking her tongue at the corner of his mouth. He growled, a low, rumbling sound; animalistic, a beast stuck in a trap: caught and defensive, willing to bite his own leg off for freedom.

Pulling back enough to see his eyes, hooded and dark, she looked down towards the purple stains on his shirt and skin, watched as he licked his lips for any excess liquid hiding in his stubble. Brazenly, she leaned in, baiting him, tempting him, surprised by his naiveté when it worked. He tilted his mouth up, reaching out to her, and she took his lower lip into her mouth, sucking, until she worked the flesh between her teeth and bit. The bitter, metallic taste of blood burst on her tongue, and a deep, lewd moan bellowed into her mouth like smoke off a fire. “You like doing that,” Lucifer breathed, licking at his lip once she had released it with a pop.

“I like watching you bleed, knowing I can make you,” she replied hotly, swallowing the taste down angrily. Just another piece of him that was going to be inside of her. A bit of him she could feel burning, sliding down her throat like acid, settling in her stomach heavy and molten.

“Sexual sadism looks good on you, Detective,” Lucifer whispered, unaware of how quiet his voice sounded. “Really puts some fire behind those deceptively kind eyes.”

She didn’t say anything to his statement, choosing to not acknowledge him, sliding off his lab to set the empty wine glass down on the coffee table. She returned to her straddling position, using his chest to adjust. He grunted, again, rolling his eyes, but she could still feel his cock hard and throbbing beneath her, his hand returning to the crook of her hips. Looking at him, she reached behind her and unzipped one boot, pushing it off and peeling her sock off, as well. When she started on the other, she deftly held the knife in her palm as she rid her foot of boot and sock, gripping the handle of the blade before casually bringing it between them.

Lucifer’s eyes fell to the blade, the beat of the muscle in his chest quickening, chest heaving with a deep breath. “Tell me, Lucifer,” she started her command, admiring the small blade in her hand, holding it up so his features were blurred behind the arrow-head point. “What do I desire?”

“You know I don’t know,” he replied, throat clicking with a hard swallow, rolling his tongue around his dry mouth again.

“I’ll tell you then.” Chloe lowered the blade down to his chest, laying the flat of it against his collar, her other hand gripping the back of the couch by his head. “I want you hurting. I want you suffering. I want you to feel as afraid as I felt when I saw what you really are.”

There was a pregnant pause: long, heavy, painful; laboring before the first sound of a breath was born. It took her a second to realize it was her own gasp that broke the silence, and what stirred that gasp was the look on his face, the pain in his eyes. The absolute betrayal recognized.

If someone didn’t speak, she was going to lose the ground she worked to gain. She was going to squeeze the blade in her hand, bleed between them, _for_ him, and pull the wounded air right from his lungs, swallowing it down where it belonged. She was already on her knees, exalting him could easily follow.

Thankfully, as by the grace of something divine, he spoke.

“It was my voice, my clothes,” he whispered, voice breaking in a way that made the knot in her throat tighten. “It was _me_ , and you ran.” She could feel his trembling, even through her own, and she found herself without words. What could she say? Even a small part of her had known that day, that it was him, but the larger part, the part that screamed _run_ , won out. “I was afraid, too.”

“How were you afraid?” she asked, eyes wide, suddenly washed with renewed hostility. “ _I_ was still myself, _I_ wasn’t standing over a man with a knife in his chest, wearing a new face!” She was angry; angry that he could claim fear when _he_ instilled it. When he was the one who changed. “You are something to fear and to run from. What did you expect? For me to fall into your arms? Just be okay with that?”

His eyes welled with tears she knew he wouldn’t shed, not that time, and the way his lips trembled as they parted spoke louder than any words he could utter. He had. He had expected, at the very least _hoped,_ for her to be okay with seeing him, the vile, retched part, and accept it. Surely it was unreasonable. Surely no human could believe in a wistful hope like that. Only a being that lived a life so far outside of mortal reality could imagine acceptance as a monster. The Prince of Darkness, the ultimate tempter, a creature of evil she knew to be wary of, even outside of religion.

Surely he couldn’t be the person she had known the past few years. Surely, the Devil wasn’t that endearing, that naïve to the ability for people to hurt each other.

“Hope is a fickle thing, Lucifer,” she finally stated, her own voice thick with dread and heavy truth; addressing the optimism that had sunk back down into his eye sockets, absorbed, spreading thin, ensuring next time it wouldn’t be as much.

“I overestimated your mental fortitude.” He said it like an insult, but it didn’t hit that way, not with the grief scrawled over his face with invisible letters reading _Naïve._

“Excuse me?”

”I thought, out of anyone, you could handle it,” he admitted, looking up at her with rehabilitated arrogance, like the monkey breaking the lock to his cage, refusing to dance. Lucifer’s best defense was his ability to bring his anger into everything. It was his shield, his secondary weapon, and he could wield it well. “I expected shock, I expected vigilance, I even expected you to be rendered speechless,” he continued, rattling off a list of what he deemed appropriate responses to seeing proof of divinity for the first time. “I _expected_ you to look past all that, because I thought you knew me.” He voice deepened, rage seeping in, turning his skin hot. “I didn’t expect you to be another one of the _fucking_ sheep thinking the Devil is evil _’for the Bible tells me so’._ Linda handled her shit better than you. I expected better from you.”

She started to believe that the only thing they had between them was carnal need, because any softness was quickly dissolved in an acid-bath of hurtful words and aggressive action. Lucifer was a switch, going from hurt to violent in a blink of an eye, and those switches were impossible to predict, not impossible to initiate. The sick part was that she preferred him that way: full of wrath and brutality. It was better than seeing the type of ancient melancholy that came with an eternity of pain and abandonment.

“Well, I’m not Linda,” Chloe bit out, her own insecurities making his words sting more than they should. “I can’t be swayed with your dick.”

“Oh, is that it?” he asked, that amused smirk on his face again, yet another mask she preferred over unshed tears in red-rimmed, haunted eyes. “You think because I fucked her brains out _before_ she saw my face, she was okay with it?” He waited for a moment, waiting for a response, but she had nothing for him, not even an expression. “No, she could handle it because she saw that I was still _me_ , Devil face or not.”

“I think she just wanted to keep her special, little project,” Chloe argued, toying with the knife, dragging it lightly across the wrinkled collar of his shirt with a carelessness that would unsettle anyone. “I think she wanted to pin you up by your wings, place you in glass, and study you like some new, exotic specimen.”

“That’s not what she’s doing,” he countered, brows knitting together slightly, just a hint of uncertainty written on his features, but a sprinkle of doubt was all she needed, especially in this panicked state.

“A pretty thing to look at, a pretty thing to dissect and take apart,” she said, leaning down, her mouth close to his ear, breath tickling the shell making his neck involuntarily twitch from the sensation.

“Shut up.” He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth, his head shaking side to side like he could make her words tumble out of his ears, his grip on her hips tightening, bruising, engraving. She rolled her hips into it, feeling his erection, although slightly wilted, it was still there, a firm reminder.

“That’s what you are. A case study. The man so delusional he has himself and others convinced he’s the devil.” She traced her lips over his ear, feeling his shiver in response, the slight gasp as his member throbbed beneath her, pulse bringing it back to life. “Even cut-up his own back to play the part. What’s fucked-up is that you really are the Devil, and your life really is just as much of a joke as everyone would think it is.” She inhaled his scent, that spicy, smoky essence that was purely him and came out of no bottle. She hated how much her body responded to it, how wet she could feel herself becoming between her thighs. She was relentlessly easy for him, but he was easy for her, as well. The ultimate paradox, really: two beings as dichotomous as they came, drawn together by their sexual need for the other. A goddamn divine intervention at its most painfully comical.

“I wonder what this hypothetical case study would say about you,” Lucifer sneered, muscles in his jaw clenching in anger. He tilted his head, exposing more of his neck, hopefully that she would trail her lips down his skin, maybe sink her teeth in. She leaned up slightly, keeping their faces close, but far enough away he wouldn’t feel her breath on sensitive skin. “The partner that put up with his delusions because she needed him to solve cases. The woman who took advantage of a mentally ill man for her benefit.” She watched his throat work as he swallowed, and she wanted to run her tongue along the Adam’s apple, and that thought nearly made her lose her resolve, a giggle trying to escape, but she held it in. It was easy staring into rust-colored eyes that looked hungry and possessed.

“Lucky for me you aren’t any of those things,” she said with a smirk. “Lucky for me you’re just something that got kicked out of the family country club and feels real bitchy about it.” She even surprised herself, and she knew, in that instant, she had flipped one of those switches inside of him. Drugged or not, danger was close by.

Lucifer’s eyes went wide, an impossible amount of white visible, and he huffed out an incredulous laugh before moving one arm inhumanly fast, one large hand gripping her throat. “Don’t think for even a _second_ you have any comprehension of what my life has been like,” he spat, pulling her closer, nose to nose, the brown in his eyes bleeding into a deep crimson that glowed like a dying sun. She sucked in a breath as quietly as possible, bracing her hands on his chest, the right one fisted around the short handle of the knife, the tip pressed against his shirt, nearly piercing. “Don’t pretend to be able to understand any of what I’ve been through. You can’t. It’s beyond you. The story has been wrong for so long, humanity couldn’t bear to know the truth about what happened those eons ago.” 

She glared at him, gritting her teeth, pressing the blade against him with more force, making the point of it known, but he didn’t care, he grasped her neck even harder, thumb massaging her carotid, sensual and intimate only in a way someone with the ability to make a heart stop could do. She could see his eyes dance between her own and her mouth, and she fought ever urge to keep from biting her lip, to keep from giving such a blatant invitation. A _plea_.

“Couldn’t stand to know their God banished a son, let him burn, made him do a job he abhorred, let him be the name, the face, of everything he got wrong when he decided to play in the sandbox and make your inferior species.” His eyes lingered on her lips, watching as she parted them to blow out a breath she had been holding, concentration so intent she could have sworn he could taste her just from looking. After a few beats of her heart, he continued, reluctantly dragging his eyes back up to hers, the glow in them slightly stronger. “So, no, Chloe Decker, I am not the _thing_ pinned in glass. You humans are the case study, watched like ants beneath a microscope, hoping the Sun keeps the rain away just _one more day._ ” He said the last three words in a deeper, lower voice, and the sound vibrated through her very being, hitting her low and deep, making her clench on nothing, a gush of wet warmth seeping between her parted thighs. 

“And you’re the jealous little boy, stomping on Daddy’s ant-farm,” she whispered, eyelids lowering, and she knew she looked heady, looked ready, because she was. She knew the profundity of his words would haunt her while she tried to sleep, tossing and turning through the dark hours of her life. The absurdity it now was because of him; the complete and total mess he managed to make of her beliefs and expectations. She thought she understood life: living, dying, rotting in the ground, but now she had endless possibilities crashing through her mind at all times of day and night. It was exhausting, and for a second, she empathized with Lucifer, for he must have felt like that since his fist conscious thought.

The was a shift, a change in the electric charge in the air, and he used whatever strength and control he had left to pull her down into a searing kiss, all teeth and lips. The bite on his lip had reopened, and she was sure her own lip was busted, but it didn’t matter. All that hate and need were being fed through their mouths, to each other, the proverbial bone to the starving dog. His tongue, all wet, hot velvet traced a line on the roof of her mouth, memorizing the peaks and valleys before catching on her teeth. She bit the muscle gently, relishing in the twitch between her teeth, letting it scrape on its way back into his mouth. They panted into the small space of air between their lips, a brief reprieve, before emotions rolled back in like a tidal wave of fire, screaming to destroy or consume.

“Just admit it, Lucifer,” she breathed into that small space, dragging her lips over his in a tease. She felt the flick of his tongue, but she pulled back farther, pressing into his chest harder, making her point clear. “You’re not a man, not even an angel anymore. You’re a monster whose gone soft because he thinks he caught feelings.” It was a low-blow, she knew that, because the kiss was far from one-sided. He wasn’t the only one trying to drink from her mouth like an oasis in a desert, but she could poke at that sore without fear of being found out. He was vulnerable where his pride lay exposed like its own organ, no skin or sinew to protect it. Vulnerable and delicate.

She reached up with her left hand and buried her fingers into thick, black strands. She tugged his head back, making him look at her through his lashes; making him look as at her mercy as she could manage. “Fuck. You,” he growled, adjusting his hand on her throat, squeezing at the hardened cartilage that made-up her larynx, feeling so small in his hand.

When she swallowed, she could feel the cartilage and muscles in her throat work against his palm, and that did nothing to abide the dampness between her legs, dampness she was sure was going to be seen through the crotch of her jeans. “You think you can love, but you can’t. You come up here and fuck anyone and everyone, yet not a single one of them gives a fucking shit about you.” His eyes flashed hurt for the length of a blink, but then they swam with rage, the glowing embers strengthening, her words their fodder. She tugged his hair again, and that time he released a moan, cock hardening to full rigidity under her thigh, precariously close to her soaking core. “You’re broken, Lucifer. Unlovable.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he groaned painfully, like he was struggling to stop himself from doing something foolish, something damaging. She smirked around a gasp, feeling the tremble in each of his fingers, the shaking of his palm along the expanse of her throat, his arm vibrating with energy.

“You think money, a pretty face, and a big dick can afford you love, but it can’t. You have to be something worth loving, and you’re just not.” Her tongue clicked on the roof of her mouth on the _t_ , emphasizing the pain, the wasp-sting of her words. Her blood ran cold, like shattered ice scraping the walls of veins and arteries, and even she was surprised by the callousness of her words. They had both said and done things that were cruel, intended to hurt, but breaking his heart had never been something she had wanted to do. He may have kept himself from her, he may be something that absolutely terrified her to her core, and she may be haunted by the things she wants from him, but she knew he was damaged, and attacking his lovability was a line she never thought she would cross. Much less slice through with a scissor-tongue, a perfect cut made possible only by the one person he cared about more than himself. A stab to the space where a heart should be, scorching worse than any burning fire.

Lucifer’s face went alarmingly blank, a slight twitch to his upper lip was the only indications he had heard anything. She breathed through her mouth in quick bursts until she couldn’t, until the hand on her throat tightened enough to restrict air flow, enough to make her face feel full and the sound of rushing blood pump through her ears. His eyes burned brighter, still a weak glow compared to what they had been on that night at her house, but the anger was there, the pain was there, mixing like a dangerous cocktail she was ready to let slide down her throat like magma down a volcano, thick and sweltering.

“Don’t make me remind you exactly what I am,” Lucifer growled through clenched teeth, staring her right in the eyes as he held her breath for her. Those crimson embers trailed down her face, lingering on her parted lips before he licked a stripe from her bottom lip to her cupid’s bow with the tip of his tongue. He eased his grip on her throat as he nudged her nose with his, inhaling her gasp as she took a much needed breath. He was busy watching the way her mouth worked to suck air into her lungs to notice her hand move, shoving the knife into the dense muscle of his left subscapularis, directly below his clavicle, right next to the rotator cuff. Painful, but not fatal or maiming.

His sharp yelp quickly turned into a deep growl, breath ragged, making him sound monstrous and threatening. Chloe pressed down harder on the handle of the blade, twisting enough to make his entire form jolt, back tighten and bow with tension. “And don’t you fucking forget who I am,” she growled back, leaning into the grip on her throat, showing him she wasn’t afraid. “Don’t forget I can do this to you, that I can do so much worse to you,” she added, watching as his eyes quickly darted down to the gun holstered at her hip. Blood began seeping into the white tucked around the edges of the knife, a stark contrast, a perfect metaphor for what he was: a red stain on the purity of humankind. His eyes shot back up to hers and before they could blink they were both reaching towards the holster. He was quicker, naturally, shoving her hand away as he deftly unbuckled the holster and tossed it with the gun it held behind the couch. The weapon hit the ground with a loud thud, followed by the softer slaps of the leather straps of the holster. All she had left was the words in her mouth and the knife buried in his shoulder.

She put more pressure on the knife, savoring his wince as she used her other hand to get a good grasp on the collar of his shirt, she started to pull, a few jerking motions before she was able to tear it open at the buttons, making pearly white rain down around him like milky condensation. She pushed the side that wasn’t pinned to his body aside, exposing his chest, his stomach, all sun-kissed skin and firm muscle, smooth and tempting. He grunted again, but she wasn’t fooled by his outward appearance of discomfort and shock. She could feel the hard length of his thick cock beneath her, throbbing rhythmically as it strained against his slacks. With her holster out of the way, all she needed to do was undo his belt, open his slacks, and pull his cock out. She could get off his lap, slide her jeans down and off of one leg. Hop back into his lap and onto his cock.

“Well, my dear,” he grunted, an amused smile on his parted lips, eyes slanted with another flinch when a too-deep breath moved the knife in his shoulder. “You’ve got me where you want me,” he continued, and she could see the hope returning to his eyes, the flash of _please_ behind the mask of disinterest and foolish determination. She could also see the hint of pride gleam in the glowing red, not towards himself, but towards her, and she hated that she liked the thought of pleasing him with her own brutality. “Take what you came here for.”

And wasn’t that just full of suggestion? 

Without another word, Chloe lifted herself off of his lap, hurriedly shoving her jeans over her ass, wiggling until she got her right leg out, saving the miniscule amount of time it would take to rid herself completely of the garment and left the denim attached to her left calf. She watched as Lucifer unbuckled his belt with his uninjured arm, never taking his eyes off of her as he tugged at the clasp on his slacks, ripping the fabric enough to let his length spring out, curving over his lower stomach. Without waiting another second, she launched herself back into his lap, and he groaned when the wet lips of her sex made contact with the leaking head of his cock. She replaced her hand on the knife, like a bridle on a horse; the only way to control a powerful beast was to inflict a bit of discomfort, a bit of pressure. He hissed at the pain, and then he gasped as she reached between them with her left hand, holding his cock still so she could sink onto it, too fast to be comfortable for either of them.

He groaned, eyes rolling back in his skull as his head pushed against the back of the couch. She watched his lips part as he forced his head back up, looking down between them to where he was buried, where their bodies connected and became one mass of passionate violence. When his eyes came back up to meet hers, they were devouring, showing an inhuman hunger for something in his reach. She gripped the handle on the knife harder, feeling the blood-soaked material of his shirt beneath her fist. The sticky, warmth of one fluid while she chased another.

She used her thighs to lift up, feeling the burning drag of his cock inside her until only the head was left in. She held her breath, watching his eyes as they widened, seeing himself glistening from her slick walls…it was worshipful. It made a lump in her throat form, the way something supposedly so disgraceful could still hold adoration for anything, at the very least herself. She convinced herself it was just another trick of his, another charm to add to add to his proverbial necklace of magnetism. She set a pace, one that was punishing on her thighs, on her sex, but made her ache in all the delicious ways she had learned she could with him. She could feel his hands trail over her thighs, along her hips, up towards her waist, and she allowed it, knowing that every time he moved his left arm he was causing himself pain. She was the cause of that pain, and he did it anyway, just to touch, just to feel some part of humanity. His grip was clinging, bruising, much like his craving to be human. To have his actions, good or bad, be as insignificant and as unapologetic as theirs.

Chloe slammed herself back down, punching out twin gasps from both of their throats. She ground her hips along his pelvis, feeling the contrast between hot skin and smooth material beneath her. She watched his chest heave, muscles playing along his entire torso, and she wished it could be different, wished she could bend down and lick every inch of skin she saw, but it wasn’t what they were. You couldn’t despise the animal need to take everything from someone and still show any sign of gentleness. She couldn’t let him see her weakness, let him see just how special she had once thought he was.

“Why did you stay?” she panted, adjusting her grip on the knife, her left hand moving to the back of his head, grasping the shorter hairs there, tugging mercilessly. He grimaced, then groaned, and she could feel his cock throb inside her with every brutal tug on his scalp. It was addicting, to feel that extra stretch, that added pressure to _just_ where she needed it. She started worked along his length, rolling her hips with the up-and-down rhythm she had set, watching his body jolt against the buttery leather of the couch, pushing them down into it. “You said you would leave, so why didn’t you?”

He stared at her for a few moments, and she could almost see his thoughts swimming in the dried blood color of his eyes, the red glimmering beneath a thin layer of brown. For the first time in their partnership, she could see he didn’t have an answer, not one that he could make sound nice. Not one he could twist and bend to fit some agenda. “I couldn’t leave,” he replied, quietly and reserved, his grip on her hips loosening and tightening, fingers rubbing gently, almost cherishingly.

“No, you didn’t _want_ to,” she said, tugging his hair harshly, feeling the throb continue to swell, like there was more of him to give, as if she could take any more. “You’ve made it very fucking clear that no one can _make_ you do anything. So why didn’t you want to leave?” She rolled her hips and sighed into the feeling of fullness, into the tight squeeze of her walls around him. The way he rubbed the places inside her that sent electric shocks up her spine, that made a fire deep in her belly, flaring up like someone blowing on sparks to feed a flame.

“Don’t,” he started, gritting his teeth, closing his eyes tight, like that could block-out all the hurt, all the painful words and memories between them.

“Don’t what?”

“Not like this,” he replied darkly, brown disappearing from his eyes, giving way to reds and oranges bursting to life in his eyes. The couch rumbled, the ground rumbled, and the air vibrated with a heavy energy that Chloe was vaguely familiar with. She remembered when her whole house had felt like it was on railroad tracks, a multi-car freight train hurtling towards them at dangerous speeds. It was like the ground could open up at any second and swallow them up, let the core take back what it wanted: it’s Lord, it’s Ruler, and his human pet, too. The perfect sacrifice.

“This is all we have now, Lucifer,” she bit out, voice a mere whisper through the tension in the room. “You don’t get to keep your secrets, you don’t get to avoid responsibility anymore. Tell me why you didn’t leave.”

“We weren’t done. I couldn’t leave you.”

“Maybe you’re right, maybe we weren’t done,” she agreed, pressing herself more firmly against his body, feeling the way his right arm shifted to wrap around her back, holding her tightly. “But anything we could have been died the day I saw you face by _accident_.” It was something she hadn’t even admitted to herself: her own betrayal at his lack of trust in her. It’s not like she could blame him, she wasn’t even sure if she would have reacted any differently. If he had sat her down, shown her his face, would she have stayed? There was no way to know, know way to take back time and do it the right way. “You talk of trust, of honesty, but you didn’t trust me enough with your truth. Would you ever have shown me if I hadn’t walked back into the room?”

The admission, the realization, seemed to hit Lucifer, too. His brows knitted together, her lips turned down into a scowling grimace, and his lashes looked slightly clumped, fanned out against his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he answered softly, too softly. Too quietly. She was stabbing his weakest point repeatedly, a brutal action that forced his strength and spirit to seep out of his body like blood, pool around him like a stark reminder of what was hurting. Soft spots she was piercing, like his heart, his brain. He had the physical organ, she was sure of that, could feel it beating through the cock inside her, but she wasn’t sure he had a soul. She wasn’t sure he was filled with anything else but glowing embers, a bonfire left alight too long, dying slowly, a dull glow compared to the brilliance it once was.

“You don’t know,” she repeated, never stopping her movements, taking him as deep as she could, a slow and tortuous pace for herself. Her thighs burned from the effort, from how wide she had to spread them over his lap, how high she had to lift herself off of his length. He didn’t look like he was fairing any better. He gasped and groaned with almost every movement, his hands regained some strength and squeezed the working muscles of her thighs, like he was trying to soothe the burn. She watched his chest expand with every breath, his abs taking shape with every exhale. Of course the Devil would look like he did: all height, dark hair, dark eyes, a face too handsome to be human, a body too perfect to be sculpted by anything other than God’s hands. He was absolutely perfect in every shallow way imaginable. If she could ignore what was inside him, ignore the eons of unaccounted-for actions, what he could become when he wanted, she could stay. She could have him. But she couldn’t, and Lucifer, through all of his exploits and outward portrayals of playboy-ism, desperately wanted to be wanted for who he was. Every part. She just wasn’t sure if she could give him that.

“You were afraid,” she continued, breaths growing shallow and hot, using her grip on the knife for more support than could possibly be comfortable. He didn’t even flinch. She lowered her hand from his hair, scraping nails down the side of his neck until she could wrap her hand around the front of his throat, barely covering anything vital, but he let himself be pushed back by her. It wasn’t strength that she held over him, but it was her willingness to hurt every piece of him that made her strong in that moment. “You never showed me because you never wanted to give me the option to hate you. You were afraid to break the illusion. But now it’s broken, fucking decimated, and I see you for what you are. You can’t pretend to be something else, Lucifer. You are the Devil. It’s all you’ve ever said, and now there’s no doubt. You can’t take it back, and that frightens you. Now I know, and you’re scared I can’t see you as anything other than a monster.”

Defeated was the only way to describe him in that moment. His hands fell limply to the tops of her thighs, sliding over her skin as she moved in his lap. It said _something_ that he wasn’t going soft inside her, said that he was someone who had learned to get-off on his own pain, or he was so pathetically desperate for her affection that he’d take any form of abuse for just an ounce of attention. She could see his lips ghosting over words he couldn’t bring himself to say, breaths coming out as grunting pants, and she could feel how close he was, how impossibly hard he was inside her. She wanted it. She wanted to use him and take everything she could from him. She wanted to have all of him, every part that her body craved, every bit of the charismatic disaster she can grown to care for so fondly. She wanted all of that, but she couldn’t have it. He wasn’t a man who could just change; he had been exactly who he was from the beginning of time. If he had wanted to change, he would have long ago.

She knew what he wanted to ask, she _knew_ what his lips were mouthing without a hint of sound. He wanted to know if she could. A question he had asked her before, in the same place, at a different time, before they jumped ship and dove into something they couldn’t take back. It was almost comical that it had been less complex between them, when she first returned from Europe with the backwards plan to try to send him back to Hell. At least then she knew what they were, something closer to enemies. Now they were a destructive mix of friend and foe, but _goddamn_ if she didn’t like this better. 

“How long have you waited to hear me say ‘Lucifer, I want you. Lucifer, I need you. Lucifer, please, fuck me’?” she asked, taking them both out of the dreary moment they had entered in. The tone was shifting, dangerously close to something tender and compassionate, and that just wouldn’t work. They couldn’t be anything other than what they had turned into, violent passions laid bare in blood and fire. She wouldn’t let them pretend to be anything other than that.

“Stop, stop talking,” he pleaded, closed eyes squinting tighter, eyelids trying to shut so tight they could never open again. So they would never see the rejection in her eyes again.

“No, look at me!” she demanded, squeezing his neck, and he opened his eyes, less brown, more red, no glow, only bleeding color. “Did it ever occur to you, that maybe I wanted to hear the same thing? Hm? Did you ever consider I wanted to hear you say you wanted me, needed me?” Her rhythm wavered as she clenched around him, and it should have been a sign of something great that she could get close to climax without really thinking about it. That her body could just respond to his without her consent. It was frightening, and she wondered if he was afraid of that, too. Wondered if he was afraid that God made her for him just to tear him apart, body and mind. “No, she started back up, trying to control the way her eyes wanted to roll into her head, the way her body shivered against hist. “Because you’re selfish. You only think about yourself.”

“Chloe—“ 

“No, don’t use my fucking name like it means something,” she all but barked at him, pushing at his neck, slamming his head to the back of the couch, staring at him with the kind of frantic energy one feels with they feel ready to explode. She leaned her head down, lips close to his own, eyes looking directly into his, too close, losing focus. “You don’t get to say my name when you want to make something meaningful,” she sneered before sealing her mouth to his. They moaned into it, a clash of lips and tongue, teeth digging into delicate skin. It was wet and sloppy, tongues dragging over every inch of skin they could find, scraping along the edges of teeth, tasting everything.

She felt his hands slide up her thighs, arms wrapping around her waist, fingers slotting into the spaces between her ribs under her shirt, squeezing her like they never wanted to let go. She felt his hips start to move up into her downward thrusts, deepening everything, giving more friction where she needed. She shoved her tongue into his mouth, trying to choke out all the things she wished he would say, like she could pull them out with her tongue, like fishing for unspoken words. She could barely hear him whine past the rushing in her ears, the way her other senses dulled when she was right on the edge of release, where all she could feel was his cock, his mouth, his arms, the itchy tingling of her skin.

She pulled the knife out of his shoulder, swallowing his deep, guttural groan, tossing the blade somewhere before slamming her palm down over the wound. Hot blood seeped under her hand, and she drug her hand down until she could wiggle her middle finger over the slit puncture. Their lips were together, but they weren’t kissing, just breathing each other’s air, and she felt the smallest of nods, a barely detectable up-and-down motion of his mouth against hers, and she slid the tip of her finger into the place the blade had been.

It was hot, and she wondered if that was what it was like to be inside of someone else. He gasped at the invited intrusion, holding his breath before releasing it in a long, deep groan. She could feel her walls quaking around the girth of his cock, which only seemed to harden further as she dipped her finger a millimeter deeper. His breath was harsh against her face, his arms like a vice around her, but she still felt in control, still felt like the ring-leader in their circus. He whined when she started to bounce in his lap, harder and faster, and she sucked his lip into her mouth as she came, finger curling inside the wound, tugging at the skin, and that seemed to be what hurled him over the edge with her.

She was never one to believe the clichéd _cumming together_ that she saw in the movies, or heard about in the precinct, but when it actually happened, when her orgasm spurred on his, she understood the magic of it. It was an explosion, a supernova of caving-in on oneself, sucking the other with you, and then bursting forth into the ether, consuming everything in their path. The simultaneous pull and push of her muscles on his cock, trying to bring him deeper and pushing him back out from the strength of the contractions. She could feel his cock pulse inside of her, could have sworn she could feel his release coat her walls, hot and thick, branding her insides of him. It was everything she ever fantasized sex to be like with him. Everything and so much more that it was unsettling. It was otherworldly, truly, and she felt like she shouldn’t have experienced such a thing, shouldn’t have felt divinity that intimately.

As soon as the aftershocks calmed, and she felt conscious and alert again, the emotional profoundness set it, and she no longer felt in control.

“Why, Lucifer? Why did you have to make us get like this?” she asked, voice soft and quivering against his cheek. She couldn’t look him in the eyes, and it seemed that he was no better. “Why did you have to make me feel anything?” she questioned, pressing their foreheads together, pushing against him harder than comfortable, making them really _feel_ it. “Why did you let me care about you?” Her final question came out harshly, sounding wet and strangled in her throat where a lump only continued to grow.

After a moment of nothing but tense silence and the feeling of his cock beginning to slowly soften inside her, he spoke. “I wanted it,” he admitted, voice flat and stoic, and she sighed. Finally, _finally_ he gave her an answer she could accept. He finally gave her an answer that sounded right. It wasn’t until she replayed the words in her head that she realized he had said _wanted_ , not want, and that hit her like a punch to the gut, sore and aching.

She nodded her head, sliding her finger out of the wound and pushing herself off of his lap, grimacing at the way his flaccid cock slid out of her, followed by the rush of his release sliding down the insides of her thighs. He laid back with his eyes closed, breathing deep, body twitching as the drug started to wear off, his celestial metabolism burning through the compound alarmingly fast. He should still experience bouts of hallucinations, moments where he won't be able to trust his mind, and that thought left her disturbingly relieved.

“I had an interesting conversation with Linda tonight,” he started, seemingly out of nowhere, as he blinked his eyes open and watched her look for her clothes. “We talked about something I had been avoiding for a long time. About my inability to lie to others while I wholeheartedly and enthusiastically lie to myself.” She grabbed her jeans off of the ground, sliding them onto her legs, scrunching her nose at the feel of cum gluing the denim to her skin, her sex, still more sliding out, hot and claiming. “Humans aren’t the only creatures to hate me,” he went on, staring down into his lap where she sat no more than a minute before. “I hate myself just as much, if not more, and I can’t even begin to untangle the many reasons why.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked hotly, frustration settling in once the ignorant bliss of her orgasm had vanished, once she realized it wasn’t something kind and considerate, once she realized there would be no soft kisses and gentle caresses to soothe the ache. Just emptiness, and she wondered if he felt cold without her warmth wrapped around him.

"Just assuring you that you’re fucking a self-aware Devil.” She was amazed how he could flip his many switches in an instant. How he could turn from heartbroken to smug in no more than a few blinks. It was eons of self-defense built upon eons of getting what he wanted from the people his Father adored more than him. “I thought you needed to know; I’m not ignorant to my own monstrous characteristics.”

“So do me, yourself, and everyone else a favor,” she started, sliding on her socks before stuffing her feet into her boots. She walked away from him, moving behind the couch to grab her holster and gun he had thrown. She strapped it back to her hip and started walking towards the door, stopping once she made it to his piano, looking over her shoulder. “Go back to where you belong. Your fucking hole in the ground, and do what you do best: make everything and everyone around you fucking miserable.” She remained where she was, closer to the elevator than to him, but she could still see the ignored wetness in his eyes, the brown returned, the human-likeness back in all of its deceptive glory. Just like that, back to the heartbroken beauty with too dark eyes and too gorgeous lips difficult to not kiss. It should make her feel powerful, being able to hurt him so easily, but it didn’t. If anything, she felt closer to him, closer to understanding, and it was horrifying.

She could feel the stinging in her own eyes, the burning of tears ready to break the dam of her lower lids, but she turned just as a tear slid down her cheek, praying to whoever could listen that he didn’t see it. She pressed the button to the elevator, waited for the doors to open and swallow her down to where she belonged, surrounded by people wanting to live without the fear of knowing true evil existed. She wanted out of his presence so she wouldn’t crumble and run over to him, so she wouldn’t wipe the tears from his cheeks, wouldn’t warm the cold hole where she ripped out his heart. The _ding_ was the closest thing to salvation in that moment, and she rushed in without another word, without another glace in his direction. She couldn’t bear to see him, broken and beautiful, covered in blood, carrying their shame like a dark messiah on a cross.

She left without promises of returning, of coming back for another round with him. She left him just how she said she would: in the dark, alone, afraid, surrounded by the beasts that could haunt him, shaped like her shadow, as warm as something dead and just as loving. Giving a delicate caress before shoving a blade into his heart without mercy. Watching him die slowly and agonizingly, all while looking like a broken boy, asking _why._

It was the closest to Hell on Earth she could bring. The closest to pushing him to his knees and shoving him off the cliff to plunge down to a land of pain and ash, to fall, once again.

It was where God said he belonged.

_(For the Bible tells me so…)_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Okay, so the nonconsensual drugging tag is because Chloe adds Ketamine to Lucifer’s decanter of Scotch, and watches as he drinks it. Dub-con again because there are never any asks for permission, but he never tries to stop her. He’s drugged, yes, but he never tells her he doesn’t want whatever she’s doing, and while he’s weakened, he’s not helpless. I’m fairly certain that it reads that he is very much into it, they both are, at certain times. Knife-play is tagged because Chloe does taunt him with her boot-knife, and does stab him in the shoulder. A boot-knife is usually about 2” in length, and while it’s painful, it wouldn’t kill him, you know, especially since he’s the Devil and will heal once Chloe’s far enough away. Wound fingering… well, no other way to say it, but it’s just that. It’s very brief, mind you. I hope this clears some things up. Continue at your own risk, but do so safely. If you feel triggered at any point, click the back button. It’s not my intention to hurt anyone.**
> 
> \---
> 
> What do you think? Is Chloe, somehow, darker than Lucifer? What do you think that means? We can get all meta here and talk about the depravity of humanity, how we’re the only creatures that like to do things that hurt other people (of course, that doesn’t go for every single person). What does that mean for Lucifer? His darkness is not nearly as cruel as a human’s? He doesn’t have the capacity to be as malicious as her because he’s not human? 
> 
> I’m thinking there might be room for one more part in this series. I’m open to suggestions, although I have a very small idea where I could go with it. A little possession, anyone?
> 
> Please, leave me a comment, let me know what you thought, any questions; it’s all up for discussion. Also, feel free to let me know about any tags you think need to be added, I do my best with ensuring everyone can have a safe and worry-free reading experience with content like this. Hope this hurt just as much, if not more, than the last!
> 
> *** Making this very clear. There was no rape, but Lucifer was drugged without his consent.


End file.
